


Near Miss

by roebling



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-27
Updated: 2009-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon meets someone at an airport; he makes a mistake and faces the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near Miss

Every flight out of New York City was delayed, even though the blue sky was calm and completely without clouds. There had been some kind of massive computer meltdown and -- Brendon wasn't sure exactly. He'd only been half listening to Zack's explanation. He was actually pretty okay with hanging out in a dirty crowded terminal in JFK. It beat going back to Vegas, any day.

A mother and father with two teen girls shuffled past; Brendon tugged his hood up a little further. Zack, clad in his uniform of khaki pants and a black tee shirt, was sufficiently massive and grumpy that most people didn't really notice Brendon at his side, but it was better to be safe than sorry. It wasn't that Brendon didn't like his fans, because they were seriously awesome. It was just that they were sometimes a little too awesome, like the time a throng of shrieking teenage girls wouldn't let his car pull out and he was stuck in the driveway of the St. Paul Hilton for two hours, or the time an enterprising young woman snuck into his hotel room in the bottom of the room service cart and he'd had to hide in the bathroom while he called security. That kind of stuff was the exception and not the rule, but it was freaky enough that Brendon was cautious now.

They'd eaten before leaving the apartment, so Brendon wasn't really hungry. He'd forgotten the book he was reading but he didn't want to go buy a new one because he'd get the plots all jumbled. There was only so long he could play Scoops on his iPhone before he started going cross-eyed. Shane was engrossed in his photography magazine, and Zack was watching a movie on his laptop. Brendon was pretty damn bored.

"I'm gonna go take a walk," he said, standing and stretching.

"Stay out of trouble," Zack said.

"Always do," Brendon said, which was a blatant lie.

He headed for the concourse, where he could at least waste time browsing in the stupid shops. He tried on about fifty pairs of stupid sunglasses. He flipped through a bunch of dumb gossip magazines. (Shocking! Brendon Urie's dinner date with married chanteuse Avril Lavinge! -- They'd just been talking about a song he might produce for her.) The toy store was full of screaming kids, but it was pretty awesome anyway. They had tons of puppets; Brendon really couldn't help buying the octopus for his little nieces. He handed his credit card to the girl behind the counter and her eyes widened as she recognized his name.

He grinned and put his finger to his lips. She was maybe seventeen; her cheeks were bright red. She fumbled as she handed him his receipt and a pen to sign with. He caught the pen even as she dropped it, before it hit the floor, and signed with a flourish. She took it back carefully, and jumped when their hands innocuously brushed. Brendon grabbed a piece of scrap paper sitting next to the register.

"What's your name?" he asked her.

Her name was Lauren. To Lauren, he wrote. Thanks your help! You're the best! Brendon! He handed her the paper and she stared at it, wide eyed and said nothing.

Brendon honestly felt just as awkward. He was so bad at this celebrity stuff.

He went back to the waiting area, sat down next to Zack, and stared morosely at nothing. It was Thanksgiving week and the airport was teeming. There were families -- fathers with lines of tension across their brows and mothers in tacky sweatsuits and Ugg boots and a million screaming children. Tourists huddled together and spoke loudly in a multitude of languages. Weary business people slept or stared zombie-like at their Blackberries. A man sitting almost directly across from Brendon actually had two Blackberries, and a sleek, tiny laptop. He glared at the screen and typed furiously, one phone held to his ear, the other balanced on his knee. He was young, handsome, and dressed in a finely-cut black suit, but he looked tired, purple-grey circles under his eyes. It was strange ... he looked very familiar, but Brendon couldn't place him. He was dressed like a corporate executive big wig or something, but the only people like that Brendon knew worked at his label and music executives always tried their hardest to look like anything but. When the man looked up, his eyes were the same startling blue of the autumn sky. Brendon didn't think he would forget eyes like that ...

The man put down his phone, and closed his eyes for a moment. A lock of hair fell in front of his face, and he brushed it back behind his ear unconsciously. Brendon knew that motion, had seen a hundred times before, if not in years.

"Spencer," he called. "Spencer Smith."

Spencer looked up, startled. But for his eyes, it was hard to place him as the kid Brendon had known all those years ago in Summerlin. He didn't look much the same at all. Brendon grinned, waved, and walked over to sit down beside him. Spencer looked confused for a moment.

"Brendon?" he asked.

"Yeah," Brendon confirmed. "Hey, dude."

Spencer set aside his collection of electronics and held out his hand. Brendon shook it awkwardly.

"Wow," Spencer said. "It's been -- ah, it's been a while."

"Yeah, totally," Brendon said. "What are the chances we'd run into each other like this? Crazy, right? So, what's new?"

Spencer smiled, but there was something a little too glossy about it. Brendon recognized the slightly vacant look on his face; it was the same look Brendon knew showed on his own face during interminable interviews when he struggled to stay awake. The thought that he was imposing crossed his mind, but he dismissed it.

"I don't know," Spencer said. "I mean, I haven't seen you since high school, so everything is new, actually. I'm living here now. I'm working at a law firm in midtown."

"Holy shit," Brendon said. "You're a lawyer? That's nuts. Wow, congratulations."

Spencer laughed, perfunctorily. He held himself very still. His mom had often chided him about his poor posture when they were kids. He sat very straight now, his broad shoulders rolled back. "Thank you. Yeah, I graduated eighteen months ago from Stanford. I'm doing the corporate thing until my loans are paid off."

"Stanford, oh man," Brendon said. "That's intense. You're all Ivy League now, huh?"

The pale of Spencer's cheeks tinted barely peach. Brendon remembered how easy it had been to make Spencer blush when they were kids, how easily he'd collapsed laughing when Brendon tickled him, fingers digging into Spencer's ribs. "Yes," he said. "And you've done well. I mean, I've seen your album in stores."

"Yeah," Brendon said, raking his hand through his hair. "It's been a pretty wild ride."

Spencer smiled. "Just like we used to talk about after practice?"

Brendon grinned. "Even better, oh man. You have no idea. It's crazy ... I get to play my music as my job." Spencer would know how incredible that was, and how much it meant.

"If anybody was going to make it, it was definitely you," Spencer said. "Ryan and I were into it, but you were always on another level."

Brendon waved a hand dismissively. "No way. You guys were awesome. We were an awesome band. I mean, if everything hadn't happened like it did, I bet we'd still be playing together."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "I haven't picked up a pair of drumsticks in years," he admitted.

"Lame!" Brendon declared. "You were so good."

"It was just a hobby," Spencer said. "I didn't really have time in college. I spent most of law school drinking coffee in lieu of sleeping. I was basically living in the library for few terms."

"Sounds exciting," Brendon said. "Living life on the edge, huh?" He grinned, daring Spencer to challenge him.

"Defeasible estates are thrilling," Spencer said, completely deadpan for a moment before smiling.

Brendon laughed. "Oh man," he said. "So hey, what else is going on? How's your family? How's Ryan?"

Spencer frowned. "They're all good," he said. "My parents split up, actually, not that long after you moved to LA."

"Wow, I'm so sorry," Brendon said. He was shocked. The Smiths had been almost painfully perfect in their suburban bliss.

"It was a long time ago now," Spencer said, shrugging. "But they're both good. My dad remarried a few years back. The twins are good, too. Jacki's actually working overseas, in London, and Crystal is living in Austin. She got married last fall, and she's due to give birth literally any day."

"Crazy," Brendon said. "They're still twelve in my mind."

Spencer grinned. "In my mind too. The fact that I'm going to be an uncle is terrifying."

"You're telling me. I have ..." He did some quick math on his fingers. "I have eleven nieces and nephews."

Spencer's eyes went round. "That's a lot of Christmas presents."

"Seriously," Brendon said. "I have to hire my own reindeer to get them all back to Vegas."

Spencer grinned. "Things are good with your family, I take it?" he asked tentatively.

"Um, yeah. You know. As good as things are ever going to be."

"Good," Spencer said, satisfied. He paused for a moment, and glanced at his feet. His shoes were glossy and expensive looking, and Brendon remembered walking through the mall the summer before their senior year in search of the perfect pair of sneakers. "I guess you're not married, right?"

Brendon coughed. "Nope," he said. "I mean, I hear tell that I've snuck off to Turks and Caicos for a secret wedding every couple of weeks, but I guess I've missed all the invitations."

Spencer grinned. "Yeah, that's got to kind of suck. You're totally a heartthrob, though. I've seen you on those magazines. Do you get stopped in the streets?"

"All the time, man." He pointed to Zack, who was staring at him curiously. "That's my muscle, in case the kids get too crazy."

"Nice." Spencer nodded approvingly. "I'm surprised they let you out to mingle with us peons, actually. No private jet?"

Brendon snorted. "Come on, dude. Most of the time if anybody recognizes me, I'm just 'the guy with that song from that movie'. It's not that bad unless I'm traveling with Pete or something."

"Pete Wentz, huh?" Spencer said, smiling. "I bet Ryan is still secretly jealous, deep down. You remember what a crush he had on that guy?"

"Hah, totally. How is Ryan, anyway? Is he still with Tarah?"

Spencer shook his head, his expression darkening. "No," he said. "That didn't ... they had some problems. Tarah and the baby -- well she's not a baby any more -- but they're living with her mom. Ryan ... Ryan had some rough times. His dad died --" Brendon cringed, instantly. "Yeah, I know. His dad died and Tarah left him and took the baby and I think he was convinced that he was going to be just as much of a terrible father as George had been. You know Ryan. He's never really been very good with emotions."

"Wow, oh my god," Brendon said. "Where is he now?"

"He's okay now," Spencer said. "He's living in North Carolina, actually, and he's in school. I was helping him out for a while, but he's actually doing pretty well."

"I'm glad," Brendon said. "I'd love to see him. I mean, I always thought you guys were great. It sucks we didn't stay in touch. Do you still talk to Brent?"

Spencer smirked. "He has three kids and drives a minivan. He took over his dad's pool business a few years ago. We talk on the phone occasionally."

"I never would have pegged him as the domestic one," Brendon said. "Honestly, I always thought you'd be the first one to get hitched and start popping out little ones, Spence. You were always the mother hen."

Spencer made a funny face that Brendon couldn't quite read. "Not exactly," he said, and his smile was wry. "I'm very much the old bachelor. I don't really have time for the whole dating scene. Or maybe it doesn't have time for me."

"Dude, really," Brendon said. "I know Ryan always joked you were going to take over the world, but you look like you're about to do it. Not even going to take a break for Thanksgiving, huh?"

"I'm not actually ..." Spencer cleared his throat. "I'm actually going to Vegas for business. Nobody lives there any more."

"You're working over Thanksgiving?" Brendon asked, wrinkling his nose. "That sucks, dude."

Spencer shrugged. "Yeah, I mean, it kind of does, but this is a important project, and it's not like I really have anywhere to go. Everyone's scattered to the four winds, so to speak."

That sounded so lonely Brendon didn't know what to say. Behind Spencer's polished facade and his careful, intelligent words, Brendon thought he must be pretty lonely. As much as his family chaffed, as hard as it was for him to go home, he would never give it up, not for any amount of fame or success.

"Your album is great," Spencer said suddenly. "I bought it when it first came out. I wanted to send you a card or something, say congratulations."

"Thanks, man. That means a lot." Brendon smiled.

One of Spencer's phones rang. He glared at them both, scowling, and silenced the offender. He tucked his hair behind his ear again. Brendon found it ridiculously endearing, for no particular reason.

"I totally interrupted you," he said. "I should let you ..."

"No, no," Spencer said. "God, it's fine. I was at the office until eleven last night ..." He glanced down at his phone again, and bit his lower lip. Faint freckles were scattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose; Brendon didn't remember those from when they'd been kids.

"Putting in the time, huh?" Brendon asked.

"I don't mind it, really," Spencer said. He crossed and re-crossed his legs. It was hard to tell, but standing he was probably taller than Brendon, if his long legs were any indication. "I like the work. It's not ... I'm not going to save lives, but I'm good at my job."

"No," Brendon said. "I understand. I mean, when Pete signed me, I thought this was just going to be like, a walk in the park. Write songs, play concerts, party with groupies --" He grinned, teasing. "Nobody told me I'd have to go to so many meetings, and do so many dumb interviews, and deal with the fans and all. There was a while when I kind of freaked and ignored all that stuff, but I take it seriously now. It's not like people are handing out record deals on street corners, you know?"

"Yeah," Spencer said. "But I think you're entitled to a little fun, too, right? I mean, you're like a teen sensation."

"Please," Brendon said, rolling his eyes. "Don't remind me." Then he frowned, because he hadn't meant to sound ungrateful. Spencer's expression was hard to read. Brendon hoped he hadn't taken it that way, hoped he understood how glad Brendon was for what he had, but how he resented it sometimes, too.

"Hey, listen," Spencer said, and his voice was strange and quiet. They could have been the only two people in the whole brimming terminal. "I don't do this often, and I know you're busy ... I mean, you're famous, and you've probably got tons of family stuff planned, but if you have a free night while you're in Vegas, do you want to get dinner?"

"Dinner?" Brendon asked, confused.

"A date, I mean," Spencer said. "Would you go on a date with me, Brendon?"

Brendon closed his eyes. His chest was tight and his ears were hot. When he looked again, Spencer was watching him, earnest and sweet and possibly perfect, but already his smile had started to fade.

"I ..." He swallowed. The words didn't want to come out. "I'm not gay, Spencer," Brendon said, lamely.

Spencer immediately turned bright red. "Oh my god," he said, mortified. "I'm so sorry. I just thought ... I mean, I always thought you were ... You used to wear those girls' jeans." His tone was slightly accusatory. Brendon remembered those jeans; Spencer had a valid point.

His stomach was twisting. "No," he said. "It's fine. Don't sweat it." He smiled, but it felt too taut, the kind of fake smile he gave fans. "Listen, I totally want to keep in touch though. Give me your number."

Spencer said, "Right, definitely." But his face had gone smooth and his expression blank, all their familiarity shrouded again, although now not by the passage of time. Spencer pulled a business card out of a slim sliver case and scribbled a number on the back. One of his phones rang again, shrill.

"I've got to take this," he said, stiff and apologetic.

"Sure," Brendon said, standing and shoving his hands in his pocket. "Yeah. I'll call you."

Spencer gave him another tight smile, and answered his phone.

Brendon's heart pounded in his chest, a fierce rhythm. His stomach ached. He sat down heavily next to Zack, stuck his headphones in his ears and listened to music as loud as he could stand until they finally called his fight to board. He didn't see Spencer get on the plane; he tried not to look.

Later, after they'd made their way to their seats and Brendon had quickly downed a strong gin and tonic and asked for a second, Shane leaned over and asked, "Who was the dude you were flirting with? He was pretty hot."

Brendon squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. "Wasn't flirting," he protested weakly. "He's some kid I knew in high school. It would have been rude not to say hello."

"I can spot your moves from a mile away. That was so flirting." Shane looked skeptical. "What's the problem?"

"I told him I was straight," Brendon said, miserably.

Shane shook his head and said nothing else. This was not the first time they'd had this conversation. They never reached a satisfactory conclusion. Brendon flagged the flight attendant down for a third drink. He was drunk enough by the time they took off that he slept through the flight.

At McCarren, Brendon waited patiently at the luggage carousel for his bags. Shane and Zack grabbed their stuff and ran; they were driving to LA and they had to pick up the rental car. Suitcases slid down the ramp with a swoosh! and circled lazily. Out of the corner of his eye, Brendon would catch a glimpse of someone in a black coat, but it was never Spencer.

Vegas was grey skies and heat, unseasonable. Storms seemed possible, tremendous storms with lightening and resounding thunder. Traffic was bad. Brendon turned the radio up high and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was staying with his parents; that seemed an ominous and terrible decision now, but there was no way he could back out without offending them.

Seeing Spencer had shaken him, somehow. Brendon didn't spend a lot of time in retrospection; he hadn't thought about Panic! at the Disco (and what a name that had been) in a long time. They hadn't been a band even a year before Ryan's girlfriend got pregnant, and Brendon had left Vegas not long after. Events had proceeded quite quickly after that: meeting Pete and getting signed, the first record and the subsequent tours, the innocuous decision to let a director use one of his songs in her funny, fluffy high school comedy and the subsequent frenzy when the film became a surprise hit. Now he was featured in magazines and interviewed on MTV and three quarters of his audience was female and under age eighteen, and he was incredibly grateful for all of it, but it wasn't necessarily easy. He kept doing what he had to do. He hadn't spent much time wondering what things would be like if he'd done things differently.

Half the family was already there when Brendon pulled into his parents' driveway; nieces and nephews spilled out the front door. He got out of the car and Adelle, Kara's littlest, wrapped her arms around his leg.

"Hey kiddo," he said, lifting her into his arms.

"Hi Brendon," she said. "What did you bring me?"

Brendon grinned and settled her weight more firmly against his hip. He spoiled them rotten; it was his duty as their favorite uncle.

The house was too small for everyone, but his parents refused to move. There were toys all over the ordinarily pristine living room. For fifteen solid minutes Brendon was deluged with hugs and hellos. He grinned and smiled and gave the girls the octopus he'd bought them. His mother patted him gently on the shoulder.

"You're so good with the kids," she said, smiling. She looked older than he remembered, her hair done in a way that made her look matronly.

He smiled but said nothing, because he knew the refrain she left unspoken: It's a shame you'll never get married and have any of your own.

Claiming exhaustion he retreated to his bedroom. It was kept in a state of eerie preservation, like a museum piece. If he ever flamed out in an orgy of drugs and excess, maybe his parents could run tours. Tearful, his mother would gesture to the Blink 182 posters still hanging on his closet door and say, 'This is where things all started to go wrong for my poor baby. I should never have let him listen to that rock and roll music as a boy.'

He went to the bathroom and washed his face. His reflection was haggard and unshaven. He changed out of his tee shirt and put on a sweater. His mother kept the thermostat set at sixty five degrees. She claimed the briskness helped her concentrate.

He slunk back to his room. The prospect of conversation was tiring. His mind was stuck in a loop: He'd told Spencer he was straight. That was a lie. Why had he done it? Why had he lied when his attraction to Spencer had been immediate and strong before he'd even known who he was? It wasn't a secret, exactly. His friends knew and his parents even knew, although they pretended sometime not to know. Still, Brendon didn't date, really. He slept with men he met at parties or in bars, men who were often older than him and not likely to know him by reputation, but he didn't ask for their phone numbers and never gave out his and didn't think beyond satisfying an intense and immediate urge.

With Spencer it would be different. It would have to be different. Spencer knew him not just as Brendon Urie, singer, but as Brendon Urie, seventeen year old dork who liked video games and gummy candy. Spencer hadn't been asking for a hookup in an anonymous hotel room; he'd been asking for a lot more than that. He'd been asking for conversation, for intimacy, for familiarity. It scared Brendon, how much he wanted that too, and how impossible it seemed he'd ever be able to have it.

He could only hide for so long. His mother had prepared a buffet lunch and sent Adelle to fetch him. She knocked on the door quietly. Brendon was laying on his back on the bed. He feigned sleep. She grabbed his hand and tried to tug him right. He groaned, exaggerated, and turned over heavily. Adelle huffed and climbed on the bed and dropped heavily onto his back. He stood, and she shrieked and wrapped her arms around his neck.

The dining room table was overwhelmed by the meal his mother had made. It was all the kind of stuff he remembered from his childhood: funeral potatoes and noodle casseroles and fluffy desserts of jello and Cool-Whip. Brendon had eaten in restaurants all over the world and he'd never encountered any other cuisine that considered Campbell's soup a staple ingredient.

He helped the kids with their plates and served himself but couldn't summon any kind of real appetite for the heavy food. He sat on the couch next to Kara and Matt and listened to them talk: about jobs and the kids and Kara's new car, which Matt felt she'd paid too much for. It was inane, but Brendon loved it and loved them. He thought that was part of what love meant, to want to know all those pointless small things about a person.

It was a long evening. His mother was anxious about cooking dinner the next day, and the anxiety spread, so that the kids ended up crying when Rose stole Adelle's doll and his older brothers went out side to play basketball in the driveway just to burn off the extra energy. Brendon, armed with a shopping list, went to the grocery store. The florescent lights were calming. He pushed his cart slowly down the aisles, gazing meditatively at piles of sweet potatoes and cans of cranberry sauce. When he got home, things were calmer. Someone had taken the kids to see a movie. His mother was busy at the stove as he unloaded the groceries. When he finished, she kissed him on the temple.

He changed into pajamas and sat in his bed with his laptop on his knees and wasted time watching videos on YouTube. His eyes were glazed, though, and he thought about Spencer, alone in a stark hotel room with his two angrily buzzing phones and his laptop full of important emails and his sharp suits. That person was hard to reconcile with the boy with long hair who had smiled so easily. Brendon hoped that Spencer still smiled like that, sometimes.

By ten o'clock he was drowsing. He shut his computer and set it on his desk. He lay down and turned off the lights but his mind was still going, still thinking about Spencer and Brent and Ryan, thinking about his family, about all the unreal things that had happened to him. The sheets were cool and smelled familiar. His parents kept early hours; the house was silent. He reached over to his bedside table and grabbed his phone. He opened the address book and stared at Spencer's number for a while. It was late, but not too late for him to send a text: hey its bdon. how's yr business thing? my family is drving me crzy. want to hang tmrw?

He pressed send before he could reconsider and, satisfied, rolled over and went to sleep.

It was well after noon the next day when he got Spencer's terse reply: Meetings all day. Maybe tomorrow?

It was a let-down, but Brendon wasn't surprised. He'd lied to Spencer and he had the feeling Spencer knew.

The next day was Thanksgiving. Brendon woke early and sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee in his pajamas while his mother fluttered between the stove and the fridge and the sink.

He showered and dressed and when the kids woke he entertained them by taking out his guitar and playing every song he could remember from his days at youth camp. He set the table for his mother. The house was too warm; he went outside and sat on the back porch. He craved a cigarette, absurdly, even though he didn't often smoke. He took out his phone and texted Shane to wish him a happy Thanksgiving. It wasn't much cooler outside. The din of noise from the kitchen carried out into the yard. The back door opened. Kara stepped out and sat down beside him. She patted him on the shoulder and said nothing else. His phone buzzed; Pete had sent a picture of the baby, wearing a hat that looked like a turkey. Brendon showed Kara, and she smiled.

"You love kids so much," she said.

Brendon ducked his head. "Yeah," he said. "Bronx is awesome."

"Mom asked me again last night if I thought you'd get married soon," she said.

"Kara ..." he said, tense.

She stilled him with a heavy hand on his knee. "I know," she said. "She knows, too, even if she pretends otherwise. But there are ways, right? Adoption and surrogacy and stuff ..."

Brendon would rather have talked about anything else. "Yeah," he said. There were ways, but the prospect of starting a family with a man that he loved seemed beyond the realm of possibility: his homosexuality had always been shameful, if not always a secret.

"They love you," Kara said. "It's just hard for them."

He didn't reply, and after a moment she stood and went back inside.

Dinner was long. During the extending prayer at the beginning of the meal, Brendon bowed his head and counted down from one hundred. He badly wanted a glass of wine, but his mother's prohibition still stood even though she knew they all drank outside the house. His sisters and his sisters-in-law made the appropriate exclamations over the food: this year's dinner was better it seemed than any that had come before it. His mother accepted the compliments demurely. Everyone ate too much and was warm and sleepy after. Brendon dozed on the couch, sandwiched between his two oldest brothers, his nephew Caleb in his lap.

He woke when his mother shook his shoulder gently. He was disoriented. He stood and stretched and popped the vertebrae in his neck. It was only quarter past six, according to the clock over the mantel, but it felt much later. The prospect of an entire evening yet with his family was suffocating. Brendon was in no mood for board games. He could take a Benadryl and sit comatose on the couch while his father and his brothers watched football, or he could leave.

But leaving was the only real option, as it had always been. He went to his room and changed his shirt and his pants. His hair was greasy and sticking up at unfortunate angles but he didn't want to shower. He grabbed the keys to his rental and his wallet and his phone and stood for a moment in the middle of his childhood bedroom and wished he'd never come home. It was too late for that particular regret, though, so he went and found his mother and told her he was going for a drive and he left.

The roads were quiet and the sky was a half-dark jewel. The distant mountains stood out in high relief. Brendon drove fast, thrilling in the response of the car to the pressure of his foot on the gas pedal. There were a lot of cops on the road because of the holiday and he might get pulled over, but he hadn't been drinking even though he felt kind of drunk. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to call Shane or Zack or Pete, but they were far away with their girlfriends and their wives and their families and he didn't want to interrupt, although they would not mind. He knew they wouldn't mind and yet it wasn't want he wanted. He wanted that for himself; he wanted to be some-one's top priority. His family made him feel strangely cloven in two; they loved him but they only loved the parts they approved of. The rest was detritus, but he couldn't just slough it off.

He drove far and fast with the windows all rolled down. When he'd gone far enough that the city was a neon smudge in the rear view mirror he pulled over. His face felt tender, whipped by the wind. He pulled out his phone. He opened his address book and stared at Spencer's number again. What an idiot he'd been. He sent him a text wishing him a happy Thanksgiving, but it felt wrong and dumb. Spencer was wearing his well-cut suits and pursuing his business deal and enjoying his Thanksgiving at some expensive restaurant in refined company. And he'd asked Brendon on a date; that bravery kindled a flame of jealousy he couldn't just ignore. Spencer had asked him on a date and when he found someone else he wanted he could ask them too.

He started the car and turned around. It was barely late, and he felt a surge of strange energy. He wanted to keep driving, but there was a mileage limit on the car. He wanted to drive as far as he could in one night and be in a foreign new place when the sun rose. Barring that, he would settle for the soft cushion of alcohol. He knew of a party on the strip he could get into easily. He drove to the casino and gave his car to the concierge and took the elevator up to a club that was suspended over the city. He passed through with no resistance. Lights and pretty people glittered. The music pulsed. He did a shot of vodka and waited for things to blur. He liked dancing, but the crowd of bodies on the dance floor seemed like a scuffle, just a tangle of limbs and grasping hands. His stomach lurched and he thought it was probably a bad idea to have come dancing so soon after eating such a big meal. He retreated to the bar.

He didn't want to talk to anyone, or none of these people at least. It would end up nowhere: at best in some kind of inarticulate embrace and at worst in hungover ignominy as he snuck back into his parents' house in the dead of morning. He should have gone with Shane to LA. The song changed; the crowd cheered. Someone stumbled drunkenly into his side. He looked away quickly before they could recognize him. He considered another drink, but it seemed pointless. There was nothing here. He slunk out of the club in defeat.

In the hall he collapsed against the wall, knees to his chest. It would always be like this, until he either gave up or the need not to always feel so alone became overwhelming enough to drown out his fear. He took out his phone. No new messages, not that he'd been expecting any. He thought about Spencer and his blue eyes and the ease with which they'd slipped into conversation. He'd been an idiot. He'd call him once more, and then he'd give up.

He pressed the call button and the phone rang once, twice, and ...

Oh.

"Hello, this is Spencer," Spencer answered, voice smooth and professional.

"Hey," Brendon said, hush. "Hey, uh ... it's Brendon."

"Oh," Spencer said. "Hi." His tone wasn't cold, but it was tight and disinterested. Spencer had already played his hand, after all.

"Hey," Brendon said. He felt compelled to keep talking although he didn't really know what to say. He hadn't counted on Spencer picking up the phone. "Hi."

"Yes, hi," Spencer said.

"Listen," Brendon said. "Where are you? Can I ... Do you think I could come over? I can't be at my parents' place. I ... I'm really sorry, but do you think I can come hang out with you?" The worlds tumbled out, indiscreet.

"Don't you have anywhere else to go?" Spencer asked.

This phone call had been a bad idea. Brendon closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said in a rush. "But I wanted to be with a friend."

Spencer exhaled noisily.

"Fine," he said. "All right." He gave Brendon the name of his hotel and his room number.

"Thank you," Brendon breathed, but Spencer had already hung up.

He didn't trust himself to drive. He felt twisted up and bad. He walked down the Strip through the not inconsiderable crowd, going against the flow. He walked through the glittering foyer of Spencer's hotel. It brimmed with opulence. The elevator was crowded. He kept his head down and got off on the fifth floor. He kept moving in lieu of thinking because if he thought about it he would never carry through.

Spencer's room was at the end of the hall. Brendon closed his eyes. He had played shows in front of thousands of people and performed live on national television, but nerves tore at his gut. He knocked.

A beat later, Spencer opened the door. His hair fell in front of his face. "Hi," he said.

"Hey," Brendon said, as Spencer locked the door behind him. He shoved his hands in his pocket. Maybe this too had been a bad idea. Spencer's room was small and not all that nice, not as nice as Brendon had expected. Spencer sat at the edge of his bed with his hands folded in his lap. He wore sweatpants and a tee shirt that had faded with age; he looked young.

"How was dinner?" he asked.

Brendon frowned. "Fine," he said. "I don't know. Terrible."

"Are you okay?" Spencer asked. His feet were bare and slim.

"Yeah," Brendon said. "I mean, no, not really. I lied to you."

"I know," Spencer said, placid. "I knew you were gay. You should have just told me you weren't interested."

"No," Brendon said. "I mean, I was. I am gay, but I'm not ... I don't date. It's not you. I just don't ... I was scared because I don't do that but it wasn't you."

Spencer frowned. "You don't have to ..."

"No," Brendon interrupted. "I'm not kidding." He scrunched his eyes shut.

Spencer sighed. His sat hunched, shoulders rolled forward, chin nearly dipped to his sternum. "Listen," he said. "I appreciate you apologizing, but maybe you should just go."

"No," Brendon said. "Please, come on, Spence. Just ask me again."

"What?" Spencer asked.

"Just ask me again, please," Brendon said. His voice was small and sharp.

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Do you want to go out sometime?" he asked, defeated.

Brendon took a step forward, then another, and sat down beside Spencer on the bed. Spencer shied away but Brendon put his hand over Spencer's. "Yes," he said. "God, yes."

He'd never wanted anything more.


End file.
